They're giving out free samples of "Rockstar" energy drink outside the cafeteria today. I've never had it before, so I took a can. It's 16 oz., "double size" and "double strength." Seems logical enough.
Pop the top. Ksssch.
Ooh, red #40.
It tastes like a snakebite. Or, if that simile doesn't work for you, it tastes like a cactus took a piss.
I've never been a fan of energy drinks. Bawls is the only stuff I've had that actually tastes good. I think Redbull is disgusting, and this stuff is just like that but sweeter.
But the weird thing is that the more you drink this stuff, the more you tolerate it. Once you've gotten accustomed to it, you start to like it. So you keep drinking and your energy comes back.
So I drank the damn thing in about three minutes, and decided it'd be a nifty time to write.
The first thing on my mind is the weather. It's playing games with me. Yesterday . . . holy shit I'm typing quickly . . . yesterday was BEAUTIFUL. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. The sun was out and everything was warm. The snow was melting just the right amount that snowballs were easy to make, and there was this gentle breeze that just seems to carry good feelings on it.
I was pretty happy. Hell, I was sociable. I went to work and had FUN. I was laughing and everything. Throwing snow, getting hit with snow. Not getting annoyed when everyone takes too long to do something. It was a good day.
Today it is raining and snowing, and it looks like shit. The good feelings in my body are running through my feet and back into the ground. Eeeeehhh.
Luckily for me, it's time for midterms. I can take all that negative energy and use it to not write my papers, which will at least give me the pleasure of sweet, sweet procrastination. I look forward to it.
You need something to look forward to.
That's all for today, I think. This drink has lost its thunder.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Introductions
Hi, there.
My name is Tony, and I started blogging about 5 years ago. I stopped after I got a website, because it felt more professional and blogs were becoming overdone. Seriously. When I was blogging, everyone was dicking around on livejournal. Now everyone has a freaking blog. My professor has a blog. My desk has a blog. My pet fish has a blog, and I flushed his ass in fourth grade.
Blogs are tiresome, and any self-respecting writer should feel uneasy being lumped into a group of people doing the same thing. Especially a group that is so in the public eye that it enters speech on . . . on . . . television! Guh!
But it is never long before a trend becomes a medium, and soon it must justify itself. Blogs have become ligitimate, and I can't ignore that. I may be desperate to be different, but should I shun the form altogether like some brooding whelp? No! It just means I should try to do something new with it. Let the avant-garde of the internet be born!
You see, I've had a terrible problem lately. I killed my ability to write. I killed it dead. I killed it through restriction . . . restriction by expectation and the illusion of productivity. "I want to write fiction!" I said, and I wrote fiction. But the fiction stopped. It still swirls in my mind, but the desire to process it is gone. Likewise my drawings, my comedy, and my assignments . . . all clogged in the seive. I spent too much time looking at WHAT to express instead of expressing.
And then came depression. I was suicidal for about a month, and generally unhappy for six. I've had an odd obession with death for years, and I'm told I think too much. Sometimes it's incredibly oppressive . . . I actually feel heavier and have trouble breathing.
But I've no time to waste on depression. I've got shit to do! Fake smiles get old and I finally sought professional help. Medication, despite popular conceptions, is of limited help. I'm required to attend therapy, which I find does very little that normal introspection and occaisional venting can't. Regardless, a person needs someone to talk to, and I don't normally like sharing all that much.
Well, my doctor is an old friend, and she knows me pretty well. She decided that I should begin blogging again. She feels that it will allow me to express my thoughts without feeling like I'm wasting time, because other people will be reading it. The ultimate goal is that I'll write freely again.
So here I am. Back in the fold, on medical orders. Let's try to make the best of this, shall we?
Oh, and I haven't said "fuck" yet.
There we go.
My name is Tony, and I started blogging about 5 years ago. I stopped after I got a website, because it felt more professional and blogs were becoming overdone. Seriously. When I was blogging, everyone was dicking around on livejournal. Now everyone has a freaking blog. My professor has a blog. My desk has a blog. My pet fish has a blog, and I flushed his ass in fourth grade.
Blogs are tiresome, and any self-respecting writer should feel uneasy being lumped into a group of people doing the same thing. Especially a group that is so in the public eye that it enters speech on . . . on . . . television! Guh!
But it is never long before a trend becomes a medium, and soon it must justify itself. Blogs have become ligitimate, and I can't ignore that. I may be desperate to be different, but should I shun the form altogether like some brooding whelp? No! It just means I should try to do something new with it. Let the avant-garde of the internet be born!
You see, I've had a terrible problem lately. I killed my ability to write. I killed it dead. I killed it through restriction . . . restriction by expectation and the illusion of productivity. "I want to write fiction!" I said, and I wrote fiction. But the fiction stopped. It still swirls in my mind, but the desire to process it is gone. Likewise my drawings, my comedy, and my assignments . . . all clogged in the seive. I spent too much time looking at WHAT to express instead of expressing.
And then came depression. I was suicidal for about a month, and generally unhappy for six. I've had an odd obession with death for years, and I'm told I think too much. Sometimes it's incredibly oppressive . . . I actually feel heavier and have trouble breathing.
But I've no time to waste on depression. I've got shit to do! Fake smiles get old and I finally sought professional help. Medication, despite popular conceptions, is of limited help. I'm required to attend therapy, which I find does very little that normal introspection and occaisional venting can't. Regardless, a person needs someone to talk to, and I don't normally like sharing all that much.
Well, my doctor is an old friend, and she knows me pretty well. She decided that I should begin blogging again. She feels that it will allow me to express my thoughts without feeling like I'm wasting time, because other people will be reading it. The ultimate goal is that I'll write freely again.
So here I am. Back in the fold, on medical orders. Let's try to make the best of this, shall we?
Oh, and I haven't said "fuck" yet.
There we go.
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